Nine years ago today, my wife and I had our first date.

We'd known each other for awhile; she was actually my boss. I was a lowly actor, newly arrived to this mecca of melodrama on the coast of California, and she was the production stage manager. I was taken by her attitude: she was very businesslike, goal oriented, organized and disciplined. Pretty much everything that I was not.

She was my biggest supporter, as well. I found out much later that after preliminary rehearsals, the director of the piece felt he had made a mistake in casting me. She simply told him to wait and see that all will be well, and she was right; it was a good performance. One of the best I've given.

But she didn't date actors.
Ever.
Especially ones that had just landed from Michigan, and was going to Pennsylvania next.
ESPECIALLY ones that had hair down to their lower back, nothing to call their own but a car, and desperately close to bankruptcy.

And yet, on the evening of August 23, 1999, for some inexplicable reason, she invited me over for pizza and a movie.

It was very nice; we ate, we talked, we watched a movie about a robot from outer space that is befriended by a young man back in the 1950's, and eventually I fell asleep on the couch.

The thing is.....I never left after that. So, that first date is still kind of going on. The longest first date in history, leading to matrimony and a move from the western shore to two thirds of the way across the continent.

Somebody call Guinness.
The world record guys, not the ale guys.
Well....call the record guys first, at any rate.

If you're lucky, exceedingly lucky, you come across a person that serves to complete you; They don't attempt to change you, but they re-arrange you a bit, like a software application that re-formats you to run faster. They give willingly and accept graciously.

Lightning strikes, y'all.